


let me count the ways

by anathema (azirapha1e)



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season 4 Spoilers, i have. never been this emotional in my entire life, references to mental illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-10-28 13:32:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10832307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azirapha1e/pseuds/anathema
Summary: The worst part, the humiliating part, is that he’d thought he was over all this.He had been. He hasn’t thought about any of it in months – but sometimes life fucks you over, and sometimes a boy you tried to kiss, a boy who pushed you away, shows up to your first-month-of-living-together party unannounced, and sometimes you end up bolting out of your own apartment to have a panic attack where nobody can see you.





	1. Chapter 1

Isak finds him out on the fire escape.

Here is a secret: Isak reads Even the way other people read cards and palms, divining meaning from his silences and the things left unsaid. He has, through what Even can only imagine is a combination of instinct and sheer stubbornness, figured out how to parse the hidden parts of Even without a map.

So this shouldn’t surprise him, not really. It makes sense that Isak would take the time to put the pieces of the night’s events together. That Isak would slip out through the back door of their apartment and join him.

It shouldn’t surprise him. It does.

He’s had two beers tonight, along with a shot of something he doesn’t really remember, and the guilt is threatening to swallow him whole – he can almost hear her in his mind: _you’re drinking too much, you need to slow down, Even, I mean it_ –

(The worst part, the humiliating part, is that he’d thought he was over all this.

He had been. He hasn’t thought about any of it in months – but sometimes life fucks you over, and sometimes a boy you tried to kiss, a boy who pushed you away, shows up to your first-month-of-living-together party unannounced, and sometimes you end up bolting out of your own apartment to have a panic attack where nobody can see you.)

Isak settles on the step next to him. Even doesn’t look up.

“Hey,” he hears Isak say, gently.

 _He doesn’t want to be here_. _You’re forcing him into this and you’re forcing him into being with you –_

But Isak is a warm and tangible presence, wearing jeans and a shirt that are his own and a soft red hoodie that is absolutely Even’s, cupping Even’s face between his hands, kissing his forehead. He lets Isak pull him closer and leans into the familiar shape of him; he shuts his eyes and breathes him in and god, he’s missed him, even for the half hour they’ve been apart. He’s missed this.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, hiding his face in Isak’s shoulder. Isak presses a kiss into his hair.

“Don’t be.”

Even listens, carefully, for any hint of anger or frustration or disapproval. He finds none.

Isak isn’t angry. Even’s head is a mess and his past is sitting in their kitchen making small talk with their friends, but Isak isn’t angry, and he’s here.

The frozen knot in his chest begins to loosen.

“It’s Mikael, right?” Isak asks, because of course he knows, and Even can’t figure out if he feels relieved or if he wants to cry.

He ducks his head further to nose at Isak’s neck. Isak smells a little like clean laundry (they’d done the washing together that morning) and a little like chocolate (Isak keeps a stash of Milka bars in his chest of drawers), and he focuses on that. Nothing else. One of Isak’s hands starts to trace patterns on his back, the other stroking gently through his hair.

“Yes,” Even says eventually, hoarse and quiet, so quiet he doubts Isak can hear him.

The sound of laughter and drunken cheering suddenly spills out from the door they left ajar – It’s too loud and too much and Even hides his face in Isak’s shoulder, and one of Isak’s hands cups the back of his neck and pulls him closer as Even inhales the smell of laundry and chocolate and breathes, and breathes, and breathes.

Here in the cold of the night, in Isak’s arms and away from the world, it feels like the past and the present are brushing shoulders. Everything he’s been running from has caught up with him at once. It’s freeing in some ways. It’s terrifying in many, many others.

“What if he still hates me?” Even whispers into the silence. The confession hangs between them for a moment, suspended. Unresolved.

Then:

“If anyone in there ever said a word against you,” Isak tells him, still stroking his hair, “like, a single word, I’d throw them out. I might throw them all out anyway.”

The arm he’s wrapped around Even tightens, just a little.

“You can’t intimidate people,” Even says, the words muffled, his face hidden in Isak’s neck. “You’re too short.”

It’s a weak rebuttal, but Isak snorts anyway.

“Let me dream, Even,” he says dryly, and Even loves him so much he could cry.

“I wasn’t a good person,” he tells Isak, before realising that his cheeks are already wet, and he hates himself a little for that. For how easily he’s let all this get to him, _god_ , he’s pathetic -

“Even,” Isak says gently, “Even, breathe. Breathe with me.”

And Even does. Shuddering, uneven breaths.

“I wasn’t a good person,” he repeats, because Isak deserves to know.

“I think you’re a good person,” Isak says. “I think you’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met.”

Even closes his eyes. Allows himself to focus on the feeling of Isak’s fingers carding slowly, gently, through his hair.

“I hurt people,” he whispers. “I fucked up. I fucked up so badly and they all hate me now.”

There is silence, and for a moment, he thinks this is it. This is the catalyst, this is where the illusion breaks; this is when Isak sees him for what he is. Except Isak doesn’t move away. His body doesn’t tense.

“Look at me,” Isak says, softly.

Even lifts his head, just a little, and Isak’s hand slips down from his hair to cup his cheek, tilting his head up so they’re face to face.

“You’re good,” Isak tells him lowly, and his voice is quiet but the conviction behind it makes Even’s breath catch. “I know you, and I know you’re good. Whatever happened, that doesn’t change anything.”

“I want you to know,” Even says, his voice cracking, “it’s just – I don’t want to tell you. I don’t want to say it.”

Isak brushes their noses together. Even shuts his eyes, and feels a kiss being pressed to his cheek.

“That’s okay,” Isak murmurs. “That’s okay. You can tell me when you’re ready.”

He holds Even close. Even knows he should open his mouth and reply, because this is something they need to talk about more, but exhaustion hits him all at once – an aching heaviness that floods his limbs and his mind, weighing them down – so instead he curls closer, resting his head on Isak’s shoulder again.

 _Just this,_ he thinks, breathing the scent of Isak in. _Nothing else, not right now. Just this._

“I texted Jonas,” Isak tells him, stroking the soft hair at the back of Even’s neck. “He’s cleared everyone out. It’s just us.”

Even licks his lips. His mouth is dry.

“I don’t,” he says, slowly, “I don’t think I could handle cleaning up the kitchen right now, I’m sorry –”

“Fuck that,” Isak says, kissing the top of his head. “That can wait. We’ll go to bed.”

Even exhales in relief.

“Okay,” he says, quietly.

Moving is more difficult than he anticipated. When he tries to stand he stumbles a little, losing his footing on the metal grating beneath his feet, but then Isak’s hand is in his, steadying him until the dizziness passes.

Even lets him lead. He doesn’t have it in him to do anything more than this, really: to keep hold of Isak as they walk back to their room. He shuts his eyes as they pass the kitchen, and Isak’s thumb runs over the back of his knuckles - when they make it to the bedroom Isak shuts the door behind them, and Even can almost pretend that he shuts the rest of the world out with it.

He sits slowly on the edge of the bed. The exhaustion comes back full-force, like it had only been waiting for an opportunity to do so, rushing in like a tide to fill every corner of him.

“Arms up,” Isak says gently. Even obliges on autopilot, and Isak takes off his jacket and his shirt, laying them to one side, before tugging a t-shirt over Even’s head. It’s old, the cotton soft with age, and it smells like laundry detergent and chocolate.

“Lie with me for a bit?” Isak asks him, stroking his thumbs over Even’s cheekbones.

Even nods. He brushes their noses together, leaning forward a little, and Isak takes his cue, closing the distance between them and kissing him gently.

If he could, Even would never be anyone else except who he is in moments like this. When it’s just him and Isak sharing a space, sharing breath; Even’s body touching Isak’s body, the warmth of him, the sound of his voice, the feel of his skin.

Isak gently tugs him down to lie on the mattress. He fusses with the sheets, making sure they’re both covered, before settling in next to Even, and when he kisses Even’s cheek Even turns his head enough that Isak’s lips graze over to his mouth. The kiss is soft, barely there, until Even presses forward a little.

 _I’m okay,_ he tells Isak silently. _I’m okay, but I need you with me._

Isak’s tongue flits over his bottom lip, his hands reaching up to stroke Even’s hair, his jawline. He touches Even gently, reverently, in a way that says, _I’m here_.

It’s the kind of grounding Even’s been craving for hours. He wants to envelop himself in it. He kisses Isak harder and deeper with his fingers tangled in Isak’s hair – and Isak must notice, because he pulls back and rests their foreheads together, his thumbs stroking over Even’s cheekbones.

“Hey,” Isak murmurs. A soft small sound slips unintentionally out of Even’s mouth at the loss of his kisses.

“Please don’t leave,” he says in a rush, because what if Isak doesn’t want to touch him, what if Isak is tired of him -

“I’m not leaving,” Isak promises, tucking a curl of Even’s hair behind his ear. “I’m right here.”

Even forces himself to breath slower. To focus on Isak’s touch. The presence of him.

“Sorry,” he mutters, after a moment. Isak brushes their noses together.

“Minute for minute,” he says, quietly, his fingers continuing to toy with Even’s hair.

 _Tell him tomorrow_ , a voice in his head says. _Rest now, so it isn’t as raw. Tell him tomorrow._

Even breathes in. He breathes out.

“In the morning,” he asks, willing his voice not to shake, “can I – can I tell you about this. What happened.”

Isak kisses him again, slow and gentle and warm.

“In the morning,” he murmurs against Even’s mouth. “If you want to.”

 _He isn’t leaving,_ Even thinks _. He’s here. He’ll be here tomorrow. He’ll stay through the night._

He feels the familiar brush of a kiss being pressed into his hair. He shifts drowsily, curling closer.

“You can sleep,” Isak says softly. “You’re not alone.”

 

* * *

 

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.  
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;  
so I love you because I know no other way  
  
than this: where I do not exist, nor you,  
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,  
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

( _sonnet xvii_ , pablo neruda)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tfw you think the next chapter will be short and won't take too long and suddenly it's been two weeks and there's a 4k monster lurking in your word documents :')
> 
> this chapter contains references to drinking, mental illness, and a non-graphic description of a suicide attempt. approach with caution if you need to <3

It’s still dark outside when Even finds himself awake. The gloom outside the window is still more shadow than light, the kind that comes with the quiet and early hours before dawn. The world looks looks about the same as it did the last time he saw it. According to his phone, that was just over an hour ago.

He can feel one of Isak’s arms curled lazily over his hip, his body a line of warmth cuddled close to Even’s spine. Soft curls tickle the back of Even’s neck and Even pulls the blankets up a little, his eyes closed – the world is just starting to grow fuzzy and dreamlike at the edges, when:

 _Mikael was here last night,_ he remembers. The dread coils low in his gut, awful and cold.

If Even could, he’d cut the memory out of himself and bury it. Cauterise the wound, avoid looking at the scar, and finally, finally, move on from it all. He wants to be someone good and worthwhile. He wants to be whole. This – everything it encompasses, every moment and word and look that happened last year in the days he wants to forget – feels as though it’s stealing from him, occupying space in his heart that he never gave it permission to take. He wants to get rid of it, but the memory isn’t going anywhere and neither, apparently, is Mikael.

It feels like this is chasing him.

Did he see Even? Did he know where he was going, did he know Even was hosting the party – when he started talking to Even’s friends, was that just coincidence? Had he met them before?

(There’s a part of Even, an ugly, hurting part, that hopes Mikael saw him with Isak and hopes it hurt. Saw him happy, saw him laughing, saw a boy kissing Even, saw Even kissing back. But that isn’t fair on any of them, and it makes him feel like shit, so he pushes that thought aside and focuses on counting each breath he takes until the bitterness starts to fade.)

He rolls over and takes in the sight of Isak sound asleep. His features are lax and soft, eyelashes fanned out over his cheeks, his hair a mess and falling in front of his eyes. He’s the most beautiful thing Even has ever seen, hands down.

Slowly, so he doesn’t wake him, he tucks a stray curl of hair behind Isak’s ear. He lets his palm rest against Isak’s cheek, brushing his thumb up over the soft curve of his jawline.

“You’re staring,” Isak mumbles into the pillow. He lifts his head, and then his eyes are blinking open and looking back at Even, unfocused and a little hazy.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” he says, and with the kind of single-mindedness that only happens when you’re not quite awake stubbornly burrows forwards, curling a leg over Even’s hips and settling on Even’s chest, endearingly limpet-like, his head resting just under Even’s collarbone. Even snorts quietly.

“Comfy?” he asks, running a hand through Isak’s hair.

“Shh,” Isak says. “You’re warm.”

Even moves his hand to Isak’s back, slipping it under the t-shirt that has ridden up and tracing circles on his skin. Isak hums appreciatively and yawns a little, before saying, sleepily:

“You know you don’t have to tell me, right?”

Even frowns.

“I want to,” he insists, and it’s true, but then Isak sighs, shifting to straddle Even’s hips and look at him properly.

“So you’re just,” Isak says, raising his eyebrows, “what, awake at 4am for the hell of it?”

And yeah. Okay. Maybe he’s caught Even there, but Even isn’t going to let him know that.

“I was just thinking,” he protests, resting his hands on Isak’s thighs. “I was asleep before, anyway. I haven’t been awake for that long.”

“You don’t sleep when you’re worried,” Isak says softly. “And I don’t – I don’t want you to worry about this. About telling me.”

“You’re awake too,” Even points out. Isak sighs long-sufferingly.

“I’m allowed to be,” he says. “I passed my insomniac test. I have a certificate and everything. You, on the other hand…”

Even snorts.

“I’m awake at night without a licence?”

“Exactly,” Isak says, archly. “So go back to sleep.”

Even’s hands stroke slowly, deliberately up Isak’s thighs. They look at each other for a moment – Even’s eyebrows raised innocently, Isak’s mouth quirked in the way that means he’s trying not to smile. Then:

“I cannot believe,” Isak says, leaning down to kiss him, “that I used to think you were smooth.”

“I can be smooth,” Even murmurs against his mouth. He grinds his hips up slightly and is rewarded with a catch in Isak’s breath, Isak’s hands curling into his hair.

“Nope,” Isak breathes out, “that was corny. You’re still corny.”

So Even kisses him more firmly, cupping the back of Isak’s neck with one hand. Isak leans into his touch, his mouth falling open against Even’s, his tongue sliding over Even’s bottom lip. When Even pulls away Isak tries in vain to chase after the kiss, cheeks flushed, eyes darkened.

“Say I’m smooth,” Even whispers.

“Even,” Isak says, half-laughing, half-groaning.

“Isak.”

Isak sighs. The look he gives Even is exasperated (or at least, he thinks it’s supposed to be), but the effect of it is ruined somewhat by his fingers playing with Even’s hair.

Even leans up to kiss him then, just once. Isak shifts, his bare thighs bracketing Even’s hips - and then his cock is brushing against Even’s, already half-hard. Isak shuts his eyes at the contact, lets out a soft, breathless kind of sound that sends heat down Even’s spine, and Even tightens his grip on his thighs, encouraging him as Isak rolls his hips again, picking up a rhythm.

“I want it on the record,” Isak says, panting slightly, “that this doesn’t mean I think you’re smooth.”

“I seduced you,” Even argues, stroking Isak’s hips and biting a line of kisses down his jaw. “You’ve been seduced. Admit it.”

Isak laughs a little, shaking his head, their noses brushing together and his breath hot on Even’s mouth. Even hands slip over his thighs to his ass, and when he grinds up against Isak’s cock he’s rewarded with a sharp intake of breath, the feeling of Isak moving faster against him.

“You look so good like this,” Even breathes, pulling Isak further into his lap, wanting more of him, and Isak leans in close to bite sharply at his neck, taking hold of one of Even’s hands, putting it between his thighs.

The head of Isak’s cock is wet when Even slowly moves his thumb over it. Isak shudders, hips pushing closer as Even strokes him slowly, teasingly, letting him thrust into the loose grip of his fist for a moment before pulling back – Isak whines, and then his voice breaks into a moan when Even’s hand wraps around both of them, stroking in time with the rhythm of Isak’s thrusts.

“Even,” Isak pants into his collarbone, making a sound that gets caught in the back of his throat, and Even curls his fingers in a way that has Isak gasping into his mouth. Isak’s thrusts get faster, messier, and he looks perfect like this, curled over Even: damp curls falling in front of his face, a flush sat high on his cheeks, eyes closed and mouth parted. His thighs start to shake, his fingers clenching Even’s hair, and the feeling of it is almost enough to coax Even into coming too, almost but not enough -

Isak’s hand moves his aside, taking hold of Even’s cock and stroking him just the way he likes. Even can tell he’s trying to draw it out but he’s still shaking from the aftermath; when his grip falters, his fingers slip lower, moving down and brushing over Even’s hole in a way that makes him buck his hips and shudder, ducking his head into Isak’s neck. Isak nudges his face up a little with his nose, pressing their mouths together as Even comes, his free hand coming up to cup Even’s jaw, and it’s not so much a kiss as a sharing of breath.

They’ve made a mess of the sheets and Even can already feel the come drying tacky on his shirt, but when Isak’s slips down from his thighs and curls in the space next to him Even draws him close anyway, pressing kisses into his hair.

“You really wouldn’t mind?” Even says into the silence, after a minute or so. Isak leans up and kisses him, brief and chaste.

“I trust you,” he murmurs. “If you want to talk, I’ll listen. And if you don’t, that’s chill.”

“I’m not sure it’s that simple,” Even says quietly. Isak strokes his thumb over his collarbone.

“Who says it can’t be, though?”

“It’s just,” Even starts, uncertainly, “I’m – it feels like I’m lying to you, sometimes. You don’t know what I did, so you can’t judge me properly.”

“I didn’t know you then,” Isak acknowledges, “but I know you now. That’s what matters to me. I know you make shitty cheese toasties and that you sing in the shower, and that you’re the most generous person I’ve ever met. I know that last weekend you still wanted to kiss me even though I had that fucking cold and kept sneezing everywhere.”

“You were cute,” Even protests.

“I was snotty,” Isak contends, smiling a little, “but you see my point, right?”

Even sighs.

“I see it.”

“I’m glad,” Isak whispers. He kisses Even again, gentle, easy. 

“Should we shower?” Even asks when they break apart, wincing at the stickiness on his shirt. Isak groans and hides his face in Even’s shoulder.

“Fine,” he agrees reluctantly. “Give me five minutes, though. I don’t wanna move.”

“One minute,” Even says. “Or you’ll fall asleep again, and I’ll have to wake you up, and you’ll get grumpy.”

“I’m not _grumpy_. I’m a gift. Five minutes.”

“Three minutes,” Even suggests, “and I’ll wash your hair for you.”

Isak pauses, eyes narrowed, considering.

“Deal,” he says eventually, and promptly settles under Even’s chin, apparently ready to make those three minutes count.

“I’ll resort to tickling if I have to,” Even says, stroking Isak’s hair. Isak hums contentedly, nuzzling closer.

“I’m very intimidated,” he mumbles. Even kisses the top of his head.

“I know you are.”

* * *

 

In the end, it happens two weeks later.

The five of them have sprawled out in a booth at McDonald’s and it’s the kind of night Even loves, where the dusk stretches out into twilight and they’re riding the high of the party they left half an hour before, laughing and loose limbed and a little drunk. There’s a warmth in the air around them that dispels the night’s chill, and maybe it’s because of the beer, maybe it’s because of the laughing, but Even knows that he loves these boys, all of them.

“You’re cheating,” Jonas insists, wiping the remnants of a fry off his forehead.

“I’m not!” Isak says indignantly, “you just keep moving, this is your fault –”

(Isak is absolutely cheating at this game of throw-fries-at-Jonas’-mouth, but hey. Even has a moral duty, both as a boyfriend and as someone who wants to get laid later tonight, to not say anything.)

“You all saw that, though,” Jonas says to the table at large. “Come on.”

Mahdi shrugs.

“It’s up to interpretation,” he says, grinning a little, and Jonas groans.

“Mags?”

Magnus doesn’t look up from his phone. He waves a hand in the air dismissively.

“What Mahdi said.”

“Even,” Jonas pleads. “Dude, you’re literally sat right next to him, do the right thing. Turn him in.”

 “I didn’t see anything,” Even says innocently, and Isak grins at him, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

“Four against one,” he announces triumphantly, his dimples on full show – and how is Even supposed to resist kissing him, when he looks like this?

“So talented,” he murmurs, and he can feel it when Isak laughs, pressing tiny giddy kisses to Even’s mouth.

“You,” Jonas says, pointing a stern finger at Even, “don’t count. Because Isak has you whipped.”

“I want to be whipped,” Magnus mutters morosely, and drops his phone onto the table with a dull thud, his head following in quick succession.

“Dude,” Mahdi says. “Mags, one conversation about that dream was enough, please don’t make us relive it –”

“Fuck off,” Magnus exclaims into the table top, exasperated and slightly muffled, “come on, you know what I - as in, whipped like Even!”

The table is quiet for a moment. Then:

“There are more girls in the world than just Vilde, yeah?” Jonas says, kindly. “It’s only been, like, a week. It’s chill if you haven’t found anyone you’re into yet.”

There’s a brief pause.

“What does it mean,” Magnus asks, without lifting his head, “when – when a girl gives you her number, but doesn’t text you?”

“Definitely interested,” Jonas says, not missing a beat. “She’s just waiting for you to make the first move.”

“It’s proof she wants to talk to you,” Even offers. Magnus looks up, his expression brightening a little.

“You think?”

“Why else would she give you her phone number?” Isak comments dryly.

“But… what do I do now, though?” Magnus asks, wide-eyed, and Even has to forcibly restrain himself from taking the phone from Magnus and sorting this himself. God.

“Two options,” Mahdi tells him, apparently feeling the same way, “you ask her out - like, text her this minute and ask her, or I do it for you. This is just sad to watch.”

“Is there an option three?” Magnus says, sounding pained.

“Yeah,” Jonas deadpans. “It’s called shooting yourself, Mags. Honestly.”

And Even –

Even’s breathing speeds up, and it feels like something has wedged itself in his throat.

 

( _Cold open with Even curled on the bedroom floor, the pill bottle empty, staring up at the ceiling and feeling nothing at all;_

_cut to the ambulance_

_cut the hospital_

_fade to black –_

Except sometimes, despite your best efforts, you end up going off-script.)

 

Isak’s thigh nudges against his under the table. Even jumps a little, turning to look at him, and Isak raises his eyebrows, tilting his head slightly towards the door.

He doesn’t want to ruin things. He doesn’t want to be the reason they have to cut tonight short; he also doesn’t want to have a panic attack in front of people he’s only just started to feel comfortable calling his friends. He doesn’t want to be a burden on anyone.

Even hesitates, and then he nods.

“Alright,” Isak says simply, standing up and brushing crumbs off his jeans. “Mags, watching you suffer has been great, but we’re gonna go.”

“Yeah, fuck, I should probably head home, too,” Jonas says, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “I need to get a head start on sleeping off this hangover.”

Isak rests a hand low on Even’s back as he navigates their goodbyes. Even doesn’t have to say much – he nods in the right places, smiles when he has to – while Isak says good night to others, the group slowly making its way outside before dispersing. Once they’re alone, stood on the pavement in the cool night air, Isak pulls him in close.

Even isn’t actually expecting the sob when it comes, but he feels it, the visceral way it forces itself out of his throat. Isak holds him tighter, rocking them slowly back and forth where they stand, and Even ducks his head into the fabric of Isak’s hoodie and closes his eyes.

“Let’s go home,” he hears Isak say, quietly.

He holds Even’s hand the whole way back, his thumb smoothing over his knuckles during the short walk to their apartment building – right up until the very last moment, when Isak has to rummage through his pocket to find his keys and push the door open, flicking on the hallway light.

His heart drops when Isak lets go. He tries to ignore it and fails completely, a heavy coldness settling low in his stomach.

 _Please touch me_ , Even thinks, watching Isak toe off his shoes, unwind his scarf. _Please don’t leave._

He’s been carrying all this alone for so long, the threads of each secret tangling and matting together. It’s grown so heavy now: he feels as though he’s about to buckle under its weight. He wants to say everything. He wants to say nothing. He wants Isak to know.

“I’m going to shower,” he mutters, keeping his gaze down on the floor and away from Isak. He tries to brush past - Isak reaches out and takes hold of his wrist, stilling him. He doesn’t say anything, but his thumb strokes back and forth over Even’s skin.

Even swallows.

Isak takes a step closer, moving slow enough that Even can back away if he wants. The hand on Even’s arm drops tentatively to his waist, slides down to his hip. Even closes his eyes and leans into his touch, and the world finally, finally, starts to slow down.

“Can I kiss you?” Isak asks. His voice is quiet. There’s no demand in it, no expectation.

 _You won’t want to kiss me after I tell you_ , Even thinks, but he nods anyway, because he’s selfish and very, very tired, and he wants to have something for himself. Just this once.

Isak ducks his head, his nose brushing alongside Even’s as he leans closer. He kisses the way he speaks – sometimes sweet, sometimes teasing, sometimes heavy, sometimes light – Even follows him when they break apart and kisses him again, and again, chasing the slick-softness of Isak’s mouth and the sight hitch in his breathing when Even’s teeth graze his bottom lip. It steadies something in him, being close like this. He can feel it when his heartbeat slowly sinks back into rhythm.

Even breathes in deep, and before he can second-guess himself he says:

“I – before I say anything, I want you to know that I’ve been to therapy, and you know I’m on meds, and I’m happy – really, really happy, with you.”

Isak nods. He looks at Even, his gaze steady, not taking his hands away from where they’re resting on Even’s skin, and Even is silently grateful for it.

“Okay,” Isak says, simply.

 “How much -” Even starts, swallowing his nerves and forcing the words out, “how much do you know about Mikael?”

There’s a brief pause.

“Not a lot,” Isak tells him. “That you were friends at Bakka together. He took film classes with you.”

Even cocks his head to the side, because –

“You’ve seen that video?” he asks, curiosity winning out over nerves.

Isak rolls his eyes, but his expression is warm.

“I had a crush on you for months, Even,” he says, flushing a little, “I watched it like, fifty times.”

Even kisses him, a small smile curving his mouth despite everything, and it hits him, then, that this is Isak, who wears snapbacks and soft hoodies, who has the fluffiest bed hair he’s ever seen and the sweetest laugh he’s ever heard, who does things like leave his dirty socks on the bed and who kisses Even like it’s as innate to him as breathing. Isak, who is a constant Even can come home to again and again, who Even would cross hell for in a heartbeat.

There’s a brief silence, where Isak looks at him, and Even looks back.

It’s just Isak. Nobody else.

“We stopped talking after I tried to kiss him,” Even says. It’s easier to get the words out of his mouth than he thought it would be.

He doesn’t know how he was expecting Isak to react. Shock, maybe; a little tension, at least. Isak just watches him, lifting a hand to tuck a curl behind Even’s ear.

“Yeah?” he says, softly.

Even clears his throat.

“Things with the boys got… difficult, after it happened, it was complicated and nobody was talking so I couldn’t-”

He breaks off, taking a breath.

“I couldn’t figure out what was going on. I still don’t know if the fallout is what caused the episode, or if the episode is what made the fallout so bad, but I lost all of them at once. And the shit I did when I was manic wasn’t easy to come back from. I missed a lot of school.”

Isak slowly pulls him closer as he speaks, his arms now wrapped around Even’s neck, and Even focuses on smoothing his hands over Isak’s waist, feeling the warmth of his skin radiate under his shirt and craving the physical proof that Isak is here, with him. He doesn’t say a word, just looks up at Even as he listens, and Even doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve him.

“I don’t want to scare you,” Even confesses quietly into the space between them.

“You could never scare me,” Isak murmurs, brushing their noses together. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want, but… if you do want to tell me something, I won’t be scared.”

They fall into silence. The urge to tell Isak rises and falls within him, and sometimes he feels so close – his mouth about to open, thinking it through in his head – that he almost manages it, but the fear always overtakes him at the last second, pushing him back. Then:

“I tried to kill myself last summer,” Even manages to get out, a nervous too-quick rush of words. Isak’s grip on him tightens.

“Even,” he says, a little cracked.

“It didn’t work,” Even says, and he can’t make himself stop, his words getting faster still, “obviously, because I’m here, but –”

Isak’s hands cradle the back of his head as he presses their foreheads together, so close that Even can feel Isak’s breath on his skin, the way his hands are shaking slightly.

“I love you,” Isak breathes, “I love you, I love you,” and Even crumples against him, sinks into his touch and shuts his eyes. He shakes in Isak’s arms as the adrenaline in him runs its course and Isak doesn’t say a word, just holds him through it, his hands stroking Even’s back.

“My parents asked me if I wanted to transfer,” Even says. His voice breaks at the edges. “I ended up at Nissen so I could repeat the year.”

Isak does this thing sometimes, when he’s trying not to cry, where his eyes turn overly bright and his breathing starts to shake, but he refuses to let it turn into a sob. He’s doing it now.

“Even,” he repeats, quietly.

“You don’t have to stay,” Even tells him, “if this – if it’s too much.”

 _If I’m too much,_ he thinks, and doesn’t say. There are some things too painful to voice out loud.

“You think I’d leave?” Isak asks, and he doesn’t say it in a way that’s accusative, but it digs into Even’s heart all the same, and the urge rises up in him to pull away, to hide – except running, in his experience, doesn’t solve anything, even when you want it to.

“It isn’t that I think you would,” he says, exhausted. “I just… want you to know the option’s there. You’re not tied to me.”

_He don’t need you, he can leave you, he can go – it’s for the best, you’re bad for him anyway – you do this every time, you fuck them over, you watch them leave -_

“You helped me stop pretending to be someone I wasn’t,” Isak says, quiet and honest. “You’ve – you’ve helped me understand so much, you’re the reason my mamma and I are talking, you’re the only person I want to be around when it’s early, you make me laugh even when I feel like shit. You make me feel safe.”

Isak takes a quick, shuddering breath. He glances up to meet Even’s eyes, and the corners of his mouth quirk upwards, just slightly.

“Also, like. I can’t cook, so without you I’m screwed.”

There’s a tentative lightness building in Even’s chest. He wants to smile back, so he does.

“So you’re keeping me for my culinary talents,” he says, reaching out to twist one of Isak’s curls gently around his fingers. “That’s what you’re trying to say.”

“Your culinary talents and my five hundred kroner a month, yeah,” Isak says, and there it is, the light in his eyes that Even loves, the brightness that says everything, eventually, will be okay. “Is that a problem?”

Even kisses him in reply: because he can, because he wants to, because Isak will let him. Isak makes a soft, contented sound, fitting in Even’s arms with easy familiarity. He’s warm and he smells faintly of chocolate and clean sheets, and there are things that hurt, it’s true, but there’s also this. Isak’s mouth and his voice and the feel of his skin, this apartment that they own, the world they’ve built around themselves.

 _I want this_ , Even thinks, and lets himself have it.

**Author's Note:**

> (an alternative title to this is 'i watched today's skam clip and subsequently spent three hours crying into a word document')
> 
> sorry if this reads a little rough!!! i'll go over it later and iron out any Big Issues but honestly after today i just. had to write something. part two should hopefully be ready by the end of this week, but if i don't update feel free to kick my ass on [tumblr](http://www.azirapha1e.tumblr.com)
> 
> anyways thank u for reading pals!! i hope u have a lovely day <3


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